White Elephant Page 8

  “I heard something . . .”

  “It says ‘Let’s run Nick Cox out of town.’”

  “It does?”

  “Might as well. ‘The Petition for Peace,’ Miller’s calling it. He wants a moratorium on building houses in Willard Park.” Nick lifted the edge of his lip in a snarl. “This town . . . It’s crazy, all the regulations here. What a joke! No sugar. No playground slides at too extreme an angle. Twenty miles per hour speed limit. No fun, in a word. What’s the point of living like a bunch of nuns?”

  Grant tapped his fitness tracker, tap, tap, tap. “Hm?”

  “If I want to live in a nice house, don’t I have a right?” Nick said.

  “Why not?” Grant would have preferred Nick’s house—either one—to the dolls’ house they’d bought. He didn’t find it charming to have a bathroom so small you could hardly stand up straight in the shower, or a kitchen with a refrigerator that wasn’t much bigger than the one in his college dorm room. Suzanne was so taken with the town that she didn’t seem to care, but to him it felt like a demotion from their four-bedroom Colonial.

  Adam pulled on Grant’s sleeve. He had to go to the bathroom. “Now.”

  “Where?”

  “Home,” Adam said.

  “No time. My race is starting soon.”

  “Lucy’s. She has lemon soap.”

  Father and son walked toward the café. Adam was slow despite his supposed urgency. Grant hoisted him onto his back. “Did you eat breakfast? Maybe that’s why you don’t feel good.”

  “I had a spinach-avocado smoothie,” Adam said, indignant.

  A spray-painted sheet hung from the porch roof: SIGN THE PETITION FOR PEACE AND GET A FREE CIDER!

  An overweight version of Ted, dressed as a baseball player, stood beside the real Ted on the porch. “Free cider!” the faux Ted called. “Get your free cider!”

  Grant shook hands as Adam tore into the café.

  “Do you want to sign this?” Ted’s brother said. He flapped a laminated information sheet in front of Grant.

  Grant smiled. “Looks pretty professional.”

  “I got fifteen signatures in the past hour,” Ted said. “Some people are probably doing it for the cider—that was Lucy’s idea—but it doesn’t matter. The point is to get the town council to consider the moratorium. Thanks for your help, by the way.”

  Grant confirmed that Nick was out of hearing distance. “No problem.”

  He eyed the races. The older kids’ run was over now. Allison was taking pictures—not of the kids, but of the parents, taking photos with their phones. All the kids got blue ribbons.

  “I tell them the catch is, if we don’t do something, we’re going to end up with wall-to-wall houses. It’s Halloween. Scaring is allowed,” Ted said, chuckling at his own joke. “How are you enjoying Annie Get Your Gun rehearsals? Rumor has it you’re a real pro.”

  Grant shook his head, modest. “I’m no pro.”

  “I didn’t mean you were actually a pro.”

  “I was nearly a pro.”

  “Really?”

  “My mother took me to L.A. when I was ten. I nearly got on a kids’ TV show. Sort of like The Mickey Mouse Club.”

  “We used to watch that.” Ted nudged his brother. “Remember, Terr? Remember The Mickey Mouse Club?”

  “We had mouse ears. We went to Disney World,” the brother said.

  “It wasn’t The Mickey Mouse Club, but that kind of thing. A kids’ variety show. I nearly got on.”

  “Wow,” the brothers said.

  Grant felt both pride and shame surrounding that audition. Pride that he’d gotten that close to television fame. Shame over the blue earrings. The young actress who had led the pack of children through the auditions asked him to keep them safe while she taught them a dance number. He didn’t even remember that they were in his pocket until he and his mother were on the flight home the next day, long after the crying jag and the banana split that was meant to console him for not making the final cut.

  He still had those earrings, wrapped in white tissue and secured with a purple rubber band. He should have gotten rid of them years ago—given them away, thrown them away even, but he couldn’t somehow. They were another mark against him, like the weed in the plastic Baggie in his closet: another piece of evidence that showed him, if not the world, that he wasn’t really cut out to be a lawyer. Not scrupulous enough. Not law-abiding enough.

  Ted handed Grant the clipboard with the Petition for Peace on it. “Sign away.”

  Grant twirled the pen in his fingers like a miniature baton. He understood Ted’s point of view, but he also understood Cox’s. That was the trouble. He agreed with both of them. He looked over at the people gathering for the fun run, neighbors dressed as movie stars and political candidates. Where was Suzanne? She’d left for the grocery store ages ago. “Looks like the race is about to start . . .” He handed the petition, unsigned, back to Ted.

  JILLIAN PICKED UP THE PAPER CUPS THE KIDS IN THE FUN RUN HAD thrown on the ground. She was earning student-service-learning hours, volunteer hours required to graduate from middle school. She and Sofia used to do their hours together, tallying them up in a “do-good” notebook they’d planned to keep adding to till they graduated from high school. It must have been someone’s idea of a joke to assign Lindy Cox to the same job. Lindy stared at her like Jillian was a maid who’d been hired to help out at a party. Every now and then Lindy would shake her head, a mystified expression on her face.

  Did she think Jillian looked stupid in her T-shirt? It was the one that had won the annual T-shirt design contest. Mark Strauss had designed it this year, which was cool because a girl usually won. Come to think of it, Lindy was wearing the same shirt, so that couldn’t be it. Was it her pimples? Jillian had woken up with a red pimple on her nose. She should have dressed up as Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. “What?” Jillian finally said, unable to stand Lindy’s scrutiny.

  Lindy pointed to a crumpled cup by the tree. “You missed one.”

  Jillian snatched it up, then felt stupid and wanted to throw it down again, but that would be stupid too.

  “Why are you picking them up, anyway? No one said we had to,” Lindy said.

  “Haven’t you ever heard of global warming?”

  “Paper cups don’t cause global warming.”

  “Someone has to pick them up.”

  “Glad it’s not me,” Lindy said.

  Grant jogged over. He was pulling vampire-Adam by the hand.

  “All set to watch my little man here?” Grant jogged in place.

  Jillian felt a little seasick watching him bounce up and down. “Sure.” She took Adam’s hand. “See you later, Mr. Davenport-Gardner.”

  “Call me Grant. ‘Mister’ makes me feel too much like a grown-up. Ha! It makes me feel like my dad!”

  “Okay . . .” What was he, if not a grown-up?

  It was unclear what to call adults. Some, like teachers, insisted on mister and missus. Or miz. Then others were all about their first names, as if they wanted to be your friend. Sometimes it was easier to call them nothing at all.

  “Where are your fangs, kid?” Lindy said.

  He opened his other hand to reveal them. They looked sort of orthodontic. “Do they hurt?” Jillian said.

  “Who are you?” Lindy asked.

  “A vampire,” Adam said.

  “I mean, what’s your name?”

  “Adam Davenport-Gardner,” Adam said.

  “You’re going to learn to spell that when you’re what, thirty?”

  “I know how to spell!” Adam said.

  “They’re the new people,” Jillian said.

  “Tell your mom I babysit,” Lindy said.

  “I’m his sitter,” Jillian said.

  “I’m nicer,” Lindy told Adam.

  “No she’s not. She’s mean,” Jillian blurted out.

  Lindy laughed. It wasn’t a mean laugh. More of a surprised one. “Want some candy? At my house, we’re gi
ving out candy. All the candy you can eat. Tunlaw, 2201. Halloween night. Be there.”

  “Okay,” Adam said.

  “Don’t eat pretzels,” Lindy said. “They make your teeth rot.”

  Someone blew a whistle and the adult runners were off. Mr. Morton, as Superman, and Mr. Li, as a long-haired rock star in sunglasses, led the pack, along with the Annie Get Your Gun director, who wore an Indian headdress. Lucy was a blue-haired witch and Mrs. Rosenberg, the French teacher, wore a chef’s hat and apron.

  Mr. Davenport-Gardner—Grant—started at the back of the pack, then bounded out in front. He pointed at Adam, Lindy, and Jillian with imaginary pistols. The only thing worse than imagining her mom pretending to be in love with an unknown person in the town play was knowing who the person was.

  Her parents weren’t running in the race, which was a relief. Her mom was on Lucy’s porch taking pictures in a too-short denim skirt and cowboy hat. Jillian had to look away. “My friend designed this shirt,” she said, showing her shirt to Adam.

  “Oh, your friend,” Lindy said.

  “He is my friend.”

  “Then why don’t you say hello to him? Hey, Mark!”

  “Shut up!” Where was he? Could he hear them? Jillian looked around, but Lindy was laughing.

  “I’m kidding. God. You don’t have to freak out. He’s over at his mom’s table, handing out magnets. He’s hot, huh?”

  Jillian studied Lindy, not sure if she was making fun of her. “He’s, like, the best goalie, right?” She felt mean serving him up that way. Mark was nice in addition to being insanely cute. He was interested in things other than sports and boogers, like art and animals.

  “He sucks, but he’s hot. How well do you know him?”

  “We went to preschool together.”

  “He’s in my math class.”

  Jillian nodded; she knew. Mark was in Seventh-Grade Math, which was really remedial math. The grade-level classes were for the kids with learning issues, and the so-called gifted classes were for everyone else. It was either done so the kids who needed help wouldn’t feel bad, or so the other kids would feel like they were brilliant, but everyone knew it was fake.

  Jillian picked up more cups. Lindy even tossed a few in the box. They held out waters when the runners came past them, but only a few people took them—probably just to be nice. It wasn’t hot. Jillian looked for Adam, but he was gone. “Hey, Adam!” She looked around, frantic. “Where is he?”

  “Hey!” Lindy called. “Get back here, kid, or no candy!”

  “I’m here,” he whispered from under the table.

  Jillian squatted. “What are you doing there?”

  “It’s quiet,” he said.

  “Quiet?” Lindy squatted too. “You’re looking for quiet at a Halloween thing?”

  “I have a headache,” Adam said.

  SUZANNE DODGED A COUPLE OF HIP-HIGH FAIRIES AS SHE WALKED across the green toward Lucy’s. She needed her latte. She had a headache that shot right across the bow, a headache that only caffeine would cure. The baby—if there was indeed a baby—would survive a little caffeine. She’d just come from the grocery store, where she’d bought a home pregnancy test. It sat in the trunk of the car, cowering between the milk and the bread.

  Nearly everyone in town was dressed up, adults and children alike. Suzanne looked around for a familiar face. If she was lucky, she wouldn’t run into the elementary school principal, a slight, brittle woman who had been rabidly opposed to skipping Adam to first grade. As stubborn as the principal was, Suzanne was worse. Or better. She’d gotten Adam settled into his new grade on the first day of school, before the morning math block began. Now she had six and a half hours a day to work. Six and a half glorious hours.

  Allison was near the café, taking a photo of a shaggy-haired boy holding up a black T-shirt. Nina Strauss, dressed as either a cat or a raccoon, kept trying to dab gel in his hair; the boy leaned away from her gelatinous hands.

  “Okay, Nina. Thanks,” Allison said. “Let’s try again.”

  The problem was clear. The boy kept flipping back his hair every time Allison tried to snap a photo.

  Nina leaned in with the gel again. “It’s for the newspaper, honey.”

  “Mom! No one cares about a T-shirt contest,” the boy said.

  “Yes they do,” Nina said, nodding at Allison, then at Suzanne when she saw her. “Don’t they, Suzanne? Ask Suzanne. Isn’t winning a contest a fabulous résumé padder?”

  “It is, actually,” Suzanne said.

  “Don’t you want to be in the newspaper?” Nina said.

  “Newspapers kill trees,” Mark said.

  “Don’t bring up trees where Ted can hear you,” Allison said.

  “You must get more light now, though . . . ?” Nina said.

  “I suppose. But now we have to look at that awful house.”

  “Let’s hope he doesn’t start a trend. The trees make this town. Honestly. They’re half its charm. Take down the trees and I’m going to need to find a new place to hang my shingle.”

  Allison turned her camera to Mark and got her shot. “Hurray! You’re dismissed,” she said, and the boy ran off, away from Nina, who went in the other direction, glistening hands aloft.

  “Grant was in the fun run. Did you see him?” Allison said. “He won. Not that winning is the point in a fun run . . .”

  “Fun run. Isn’t that an oxymoron?” Suzanne said. Yes, she was a runner, but no, she didn’t have “fun” doing it. Runner’s high was made up, as far as she could tell.

  “Touché.”

  “I just bought a hundred dollars’ worth of school supplies,” Suzanne said as they climbed the steps to Lucy’s. “Are they nuts? Six different colored notebooks. A three-inch-thick binder. Ten mechanical pencils. Colored pencils. A protractor and compass. A rolling knapsack—this is first grade we’re talking about. You didn’t tell me about the principal.”

  “She’s new this year . . .”

  “He had to bring toiletries too. Antibacterial soap and paper towels. What kind of doomsday scenario do they have in mind?”

  “In my day first-graders were issued a thick red pencil,” Ted said. He was on the porch with a clipboard.

  “Nice costume,” Suzanne said. “All we have to do is plant you.”

  Ted bowed as much as his sandwich board would allow. “Where’s your costume?”

  Suzanne looked down at her slacks and blouse, her cashmere pullover. “I’m a stressed-out mother. Aren’t I convincing?”

  Ted gave her the petition. “All we want to do is get the town council to discuss the idea. That’s all you’re doing by signing. Saying you support that. We just want to keep houses like Nick Cox’s out in the exurbs, where they belong.”

  “He has a nice new house,” said an alternate, heavier version of Ted dressed in a baseball shirt and cap.

  “I didn’t know there were two of you,” Suzanne said, receiving an introduction. “Baseball fan?”

  Terrance nodded. “And Ted likes trees. Allison likes cowboy stuff, right, Allison?”

  “Sort of . . . ,” Allison said.

  “What do you like?” Terrance asked Suzanne.

  Suzanne could feel her smile cracking, aging. “I like . . . ,” she said. What did she like? It was an interesting question. To win? Did that count? “I like coffee. I’m going to get one.”

  She went into the café, where she meant to become a regular. She studied the menu above the counter in search of a size larger than large.

  Lucy, with blue hair and blackened teeth, was serving up a Halloween menu of hot and cold Jack-o’-Lantern Juice and Ghostly White Hot Chocolate. There were candy apples, and, in addition to the ordinary bars and cookies, frosted cookies shaped like witches and ghosts—some for humans and others for dogs. A big jug full of candy corn sat on the counter beside a small sign: GUESS HOW MANY AND WIN A LUCY’S T-SHIRT! Lucy could teach her a thing or two about marketing, Suzanne thought.

  Beauty sat at a table
in the corner with a little boy. Blond hair, yellow gown—she complemented Lucy’s color scheme perfectly. Kaye Cox. They’d met a few weeks ago, when Kaye stopped by with a bright pink plate full of fudge.

  Suzanne, in the midst of unpacking that afternoon, nearly had invited her inside, but the overeagerness of Kaye’s smile made her hold her at bay. Suzanne set the fudge on the kitchen counter after Kaye left, cut a square, and went back to unpacking the pots and pans. The fudge was cloyingly sweet, but it called to her all day long nonetheless, drawing her close with its siren song. She’d eaten four pieces before she dumped the whole thing, neon plate and all, into the trash. In another life, she would have gone for a long, hard run, to burn it all off—but how could she with a bum knee and Adam to watch? She wanted her mother. She really did. She nearly called her, but in the end refrained, afraid “Grammy” would pack the car and drive up, to her rescue. I always said it was too much running, but who listens to the old lady? What does she know?

  Suzanne thought about Kaye’s plate now, cracked in a landfill somewhere. What if she asked Grant or Adam how they liked the fudge? Or asked for her plate back? Suzanne turned around, intending to walk out of the café, meaning to spend the next thirty years avoiding Kaye Cox.

  “Susie!” Kaye called.

  “Suzanne,” Suzanne said, smiling as wide as she could manage. “I’m just getting a coffee. A big one, I think.”

  Kaye nodded, knowingly. “I feel you.”

  “Can I get you anything?”

  “Oh gosh, no! This is Jakey. Have you met Jakey?”

  Jakey was eating a cookie as big as his head, crumbs falling onto his plate.

  “Hi, Jakey!” Suzanne said. “Thanks for the fudge, by the way. It was really good.”

  “My mother’s recipe. Hey, your husband won the fun run.” Kaye shimmied, which felt weirdly inappropriate.

  Suzanne decided to use her joke again. “Fun run. Sounds like an oxymoron.”

  Kaye laughed a little loud and long. Did she know what an oxymoron was? They said you couldn’t judge a book by its cover. But sometimes you actually could.

  Kaye patted the empty chair beside her when Suzanne came back with her latte. “Come sit with us!” she said.